


Last Rites

by blakefancier



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2011-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:05:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakefancier/pseuds/blakefancier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what it feels like to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Rites

Now I lay me down to sleep  
I pray the Lord my soul to keep  
If I should die before I wake  
I pray the Lord my soul to take

*****

His mouth was open in a perfect circle but nothing emerged. His throat worked, clenching and unclenching, tongue trying to push sounds up from the very depths of his agony. Memories were being ripped to pieces right before his eyes, plucked and then torn. There was Ravella, who he had known for years, but whose face he could not recall. And the young man with dark hair and full lips. This boy who he had loved but whose name was lost.

A pair of eyes, the slow cadence of a voice, and hands, strong and sure, all were taken from him. There were jagged holes where friends should have been.

If only he could scream then perhaps something would remain, perhaps he could hold on to this one or that one. They told him to close his eyes; it would be easier that way. But he knew that if he did, he would slip away like water through splayed fingers

Mother, Father, Brother, Sister; he did not want to forget how Dad's cheek felt against the palm of his hand or how Mum laughed when she was reading. He wanted to remember the names of Brother and Sister: Dayvid and Aerin.

He didn't know how he was breathing with all the sounds trapped in his mouth. He used to be able to vocalize the nightmares that drifted in and out but sometime between the first punch and the last kick, he unlearned it.

Faster and faster, the specter of nothing widened in his mind, sucking or erasing or pushing. Please, please, please! He'd beg if he could, he'd curse if he could. My god, my god...

Forsaken. And still they were drinking in his life.

If he could hold the warmth he would, then he could explain to them the futility of this destruction. Freedom would come no matter how cruel the lash. Others would rise to take his place.

He didn't want to forget, he didn't want to cease to exist. He wanted to shout his name to confirm that he was still alive. If only just a whisper would escape, a moan, a cry, a small sound of pain to break the chrysalis of silence. He was fading away.

Oh, he could feel tears wetting his temples but no sobs, no stuttered breaths. There was no outlet for his grief but the stain of salt water.

He wanted to tell those around him that he was sorry, sorry he could not be strong enough to stop them.

He was so very, very tired. With a regret that burned through every nerve, he closed his eyes.


End file.
